


Nosferaflu

by prepare4trouble



Category: Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Frogfic, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:23:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3498290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prepare4trouble/pseuds/prepare4trouble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is some disagreement over what is wrong with Alan</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nosferaflu

Alan woke with a headache that threatened to split his head in half. He groaned, flinging one arm across his face to shield his eyes from the glare of the light assaulting him from around the edges of the closed curtain. That hurt too.

Gingerly, he moved his arm just enough to see the clock hanging on the wall. He was late for school. He made an abortive move to get out of bed, stopped by the damp covers wrapped around his body. The morning air hit his exposed skin, it was icy cold. His headache pounded on with no regard for his schedule, his mouth was dry and his entire body ached. He felt like he had taken a beating the night before.

Out of the corner of the one eye he had exposed to the light, he sensed movement. Carefully, he turned his head in the direction of the door, to find Edgar standing there, fully clothed and with a bag slung over his shoulder, arms folded tightly across his chest and an expression of mild terror on his face.

“Edgar,” he said. His voice came out as a hoarse rasp. “I think I'm sick.”

“Oh yeah?” said his brother, peering at him from a safe distance. “Light aversion, physical exhaustion during the day. I'd say you're something else. What the hell have you been up to?”

Alan groaned again, trying to sit up in bed. Every muscle ached in protest. “Can you get me something to drink?” he asked.

“A _drink_? You're kidding, right?”

“Edgar, I'm not...” he stopped. He didn't have the energy to do this right now. He allowed himself to drop back down onto the bed and closed his eyes. “Just tell school I'm sick,” he said.

Edgar pulled a cross from his satchel. He didn't have time or tools to nail it up, but lay it on the floor right in front of the bedroom door. He stepped over it and closed the door behind him, then fled, quickly, into the daylight.

* * *

Edgar cycled as quickly as his legs would let him, putting as much distance between himself and home as possible. His heart pounded more with anxiety than the exercise, while his mind raced, trying to pinpoint the exact time that it had happened.

They had been together the night before, as they were most nights. They had closed up the comic store, counted up the night's takings and stashed them in the box in the kitchen ready to take to the bank at the end of the week, then retreated upstairs to plan their next mission. They had stopped early, Alan hadn't seemed able to concentrate. They had gone to bed. At no point during the night had they had contact with anyone who could have slipped him some blood.

It much have been earlier than that. Damnit. How could he not have noticed? How could Alan not have noticed? He knew better than to drink anything he hadn't opened himself.

Kids were flooding into the school gates from all directions. He slung one leg over his saddle and traveled the final few yards standing on one pedal before breaking to an abrupt stop directly in front of Sam Emerson.

“Hey, watch it,” Sam told him. “These pants are brand new. I wouldn't want to get dirty scuff marks from your tires all over them.”

Edgar looked at his friends attire and smirked. “Might be an improvement,” he said.

“Hey!”

“Forget your clothes,” Edgar told him, suddenly remembering the seriousness of the situation. “We've got more important things to worry about. It's Alan, he...” He paused, glancing around at the crowds surrounding them. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “They got to him.”

Sam frowned, trying to understand Edgar's meaning, then his eyes widened in horror. “You don't mean..?”

Edgar nodded.

“Shit. How?”

Edgar grabbed Sam by the shoulder and dragged him to a quieter, area away from the prying ears of kids and teachers. On a step by one of the schools little used side entrances, he sank down and sat on the concrete. Sam examined the ground for anything that might stain his clothes, then sat down next to him.

“That's what I can't figure out,” Edgar said. “He seemed fine last night, he didn't have contact with any vampires as far as I know. Either it happened in the store last night when I wasn't looking, or he went out while I was asleep.”

Sam looked thoughtful. “Edgar, are you sure he's a vampire? I mean – and don't take this the wrong way – you do kind of tend to see vampires everywhere. Are you a hundred percent certain that's what's happening here?”

Edgar frowned. “Of course. What else could it be?”

“Well, just off the top of my head, the flu?”

Inside the building, the bell rang for start of classes. Edgar glanced around for teachers, then ignored it. “Does the flu make your eyes hurt in the light? Does the flu make you so tired you can't even get out of bed in the morning?” He shook his head dismissively.

“Well, yeah.”

“Really?”

“I had it a few years back. Believe me, I have never felt so sick.”

Edgar mulled the idea over in him mind, then shook his head. “Alan doesn't get sick,” he said.

Sam shrugged. “Casey Mullins is off with the flu,” he said. “Davy Greenbaum too. It's going around. I assume you tested him?”

“For the flu? How?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “No, genius. For being a vampire. You know, holy water, garlic, mirror, all that stuff.”

Edgar suddenly noticed a piece of the sole of his boot was coming away. He reached down and toyed with it, trying to loosen it and detach it from the boot.

“You didn't, did you?” Sam accused.

“You didn't see him Sam. He looked like one of the undead. He even asked me for a drink!”

Sam stared, incredulous. “Please tell me you didn't stake your brother.”

“No! Of course not!”

“Then, correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't you go and make sure he's okay?”

Edgar got to his feet. Sam followed his lead, brushing the floor dust from his clothes as he did. Edgar glanced around them again. “Okay, what's the best way for us to bust out of here without being spotted?”

“Us?” Sam asked. “Since when am I included?”

“Since I need backup. We still don't know he isn't a vampire.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine. I spotted a new hole under the fence at the back of the football field the other day. I doubt they've filled it yet. You owe me for this though, Edgar. Mud stains don't come out easy, you know.”

Edgar took off at a sprint, Sam followed.

* * *

Sam pushed the door open slowly, trying to minimize the loud creaking sound it made. He crept forward on tiptoes, barely even breathing. Edgar was right, Alan did look like the undead. He actually looked worse than Michael had as a half vampire. He also looked fast asleep. He glanced at Edgar. Edgar nodded, winding a hand around in the air as if to tell him to hurry up.

As quietly as he could, Sam pulled the compact mirror from his pocket, opened it up and angled it so that they could see Alan reflected. His reflection was complete.

At his side, he felt Edgar relax. Sam turned to his friend, feeling the almost overwhelming urge to thump some common sense into him. He resisted, instead grabbing Edgar by his wrist and pulling him from the room.

“Okay,” Edgar said as soon as the door was closed. “You were right. That doesn't mean I was wrong.”

Sam frowned. “Yeah, it kinda does, bud. In fact, that's pretty much the definition of you being wrong.”

“But he could have been a vampire.”

He turned and walked back down the stairs. Sam followed him into the kitchen where Edgar was filling an old, limescale encrusted kettle from the faucet.

Sam watched as he placed it on the stove. “What are you doing now?” he asked.

Edgar treated him to a withering look. “I'm making tea,” he said, “what does it look like?”

“Tea?” One eyebrow raised quizzically in a perfect Spock.

“Weak tea with honey and lemon. Frog family cure-all,” Edgar clarified. “I'm looking after my brother.”

Sam smiled.

Edgar caught the expression and scowled in return. “Problem?”

“The total opposite.” Sam placed his compact on the kitchen table and turned for the door. “You can keep the mirror,” he told Edgar. “I think you need it more, and anyway I've got another one at home. I'll see you at school. And Edgar?”

Edgar looked up as the kettle began to boil.

“Don't get sick, okay? Trust me, I'm not nursemaid material. You do _not_ want me to be the last man standing.”

“I don't get sick,” Edgar told him.

There was a slight tickle at the back of his throat. He ignored it.


End file.
